


Scars

by Astrous



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon), Young Justice - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, could be seen as gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 17:42:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8905444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astrous/pseuds/Astrous
Summary: "And that sound? Must be hearing things. Heroes don't sniffle, and they certainly don't sob." Based on a headcanon by an-ime-goil on Tumblr.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: When Dick and Artemis trade stories about their scars, something they rarely do in front of other people, they make light of them. Because they both know that "Oh, that was just a knife scratch. Hate it when the bad guys zig and you zag, you know?" really means it was a dire situation, you screwed up and misread the enemy's move and got injured, somehow still had to win that fight, or worse, had to be rescued by your respective father figures, and then spent several days favoring that leg and checking for infection every few hours, sleeping badly because the ache would wake you up in the middle of the night.

"And that one?"

"Archery accident."

"You tried to learn archery?"

Dick smiled. He sat across from Artemis, both of them cross-legged on the bed. He was shirtless, wearing only his workout leggings; she in a sports bra and spandex shorts.

"Once upon a time." Her hands cradled one of his, index finger brushing along the thin scar along his hand, a reminder of the laceration once caused by a misfired arrow. Dick's free hand traced lingering circular patterns up her shin, his eyes drifting along the limb to pause on a thin line above her right knee. "This one?"

_Knife wound, battling Dad some time or another._

"Just a scratch." The archer smiled in reassurance. "They can never make up their mind on what direction to go in, can they?" Dick laughed with her lightly, goosebumps playing across his skin as her fingers slid up his arm, one hand coming to rest on a particularly nasty starburst on his shoulder.

"And this?" _Some kind of animal? …more like Killer Croc._

"I'm telling you, those rats in the Narrows? They're easily as big as a toddler now." He grinned, masking his emotions just like he'd be practicing for years. "I'll try to snap you a picture next time I see one." The acrobat shifted closer, both hands smooth across her stomach before trailing back and skidding along her spine. The skin was raised in a neat line just below her left shoulder, about three inches in length.

_Stab wound. Possibly a switchblade. Or a sai._

"Fell on a tree branch in the park." She supplied an explanation before he even opened his mouth to ask. He nodded slow and deliberate, accepting her lies as easily as she'd allowed his. Neither of them wanted to relive the memories, no matter how often they did this.

She was almost in his lap by now, both of them sliding closer with each new discovery, a form of silent comfort and reassurance their practiced excuses couldn't even begin to supply. Her palm rested just below his ribcage and off to one side, covering a circular indentation barely over an inch wide.

_Gunshot._

Artemis' eyes traveled up from her hand to meet his own, the hesitation clear within their blue depths. They were both running low on excuses. Gotham didn't allow for excuses, and neither did the Shadows. You fought, and you fought hard, or you were going to get hurt. If you were lucky it would kill you on the spot, quick and painless. Otherwise you lived to die another day, and got the unforgiving pain and guilt of the aftermath as a bonus. Nobody had room for mistakes.

In one smooth motion, the archer's arms wound their way around Dick's neck, his arms already finding their way around her waist. They held on desperately tight, faces hidden away and buried against the others' skin.

Both neglected to comment on the shivers that traveled along their skin.

Neither did they mention the mysterious dampness that dripped and dropped on a shoulder or two. And that sound? Must be hearing things.

Heroes don't sniffle, and they certainly don't sob.

 _It's better this way_ , they told themselves, on repeat like a mantra in their heads. _No need to worry._


End file.
